To Fade
by A-Kubrick-Spent
Summary: With regards to Neil Young.  Sometimes, death isn't the worst option.  Sometimes, it's better to burn out then to fade away.  Harry Potter wasn't given the option.


_War_

There was magic between them- pure, unadulterated, and powerful. Awed faces surrounding them, but that was not their concern.

Tom Riddle was about to die.

And they both knew it. The power that coursed through their wands, their hands, minds and bodies emenated from the small, scrawny boy of seventeen.

His name was Harry Potter, and he was about to kill the self-styled Lord Voldemort- and he knew it. "Not so invincible know, eh, Tom?" He allowed himself the one, small taunt- for all the pain and suffering of the past sixteen years or so, he thought he'd earned it.

Voldemort grimaced, the magic between them starting to burn away at his- frail, mortal- flesh. "Curse you, Potter," he murmered as it pressed closer to him.

His opponent smirked. "I'll see you in Hell, Tom. You've got a lot to answer for. Just to spite you, after this, I'm going to have a nice, big family and enjoy every single moment of it."

One, however, does not get to be the most feared man in half a century without something to show for it. Especially potent are the tricks used to hurt who you know will best you; old, forgotten, _powerful_ magics. "Though I die, Harry Potter," he said, voice raising over the maelstrum that was created by the clashing of the two most powerful wizards on the Island. "Though I die, I will find immortality in infamy! My name will be whispered and feared for forever! But you, Harry Potter, you I curse! You will never be known, you shall be forgotten by those who you love! You will suffer a defeat far greater then death, Harry Potter!"

And, a curious thing happened.

The magic that was between the two pushed forward, and with a final, outraged cry, the Dark lord Voldemort was no more. However, that is not the most curious thing (although many would say it was the more important of the two). No, the most curious thing was that, as he died, there was a final, insignificant burst of magic from Tom Riddle; an etheral, greyish light that was almost entirely drowned out by the vivacious, golden magic that finally ended Riddles life.

Harry Potter grinned, looking at his slain foe. Around him, Hogwarts burned, the slain piled, and the injured moaned as their injuries tried to claim them, even then. But he had _won_.

The man who had tried to become a God, killed his parents and friends, killed by his hand. He never felt better.

A bushy, brown haired girl bolted up the path, tears streaming down her face.

"Hermione," he shouted gleefully. "Hermione, I did it! We won!" He held out his arms, aching and tired, waiting for a bone crushing hug as he had become used to.

Instead, the girl rushed right past him, stopping to gaze at Riddle's body for a moment. "Harry? Harry, where are you?"

"I'm right here, Herm! Here!" He walked up to her, tapping her shoulder impatiently.

"Harry!" Her eyes widened in relief and surprise, and he had his hug. "I thought you were gone. I... I had thought..."

"Shhh, shh," he soothed, stroking her hair to calm her. "I'm not going anywhere, Hermione. You walked right past me, though. I shouted and everything."

"I guess I'm... distracted, or something. Oh, Merlin, Harry, I'm so happy that you are alright. _We're_ alright, I think."

"Yeah," he mumbled into her hair. "I think we're alright."

_Grief_

It is a strange and horrible thing to see a father bury his son.

In war, sons are made for sacrificing (So say the old men who ask so candidly for those selfsame sons); but it is all a lie. It should, to rights, be the son that burys the Father.

Fred Weasley was laid to rest in a small plot of land that many other Weasleys had been buried before him. Molly and Ginny never stopped crying the entire time. Arthur and Percy were stony faced and red eyed. Ron had fallen to his knees, and Bill and Charlie simply stood quietly by, lost in thought at seeing their young sibling taken so forcefully from them.

George hadn't spoken since he had seen Fred die.

All the Healers said that, no, it was just shell-shock, and, who could blame him? The two had been insepperable since birth.

Was cruelty, said they, for one to survive without the other. A tragedy, nay, a _sin_.

But George Weasley kept on staring at his twins ashen corpse, not speaking a word, barely breathing. His eyes were far away.

_Thousand yard Stare,_ said the muggleborns. _Residual spell damage_, said the purebloods.

Quietly, only to himself, Harry Potter would say that it was _envy_, but, again, he would only say that to himself.

Fred was lowered into the earth, and small handfuls of dust fell upon the casket like raindrops.

"It's not that I don't want you here, mate," said Ron later. "We all love you like family, you know that," he explained. "Just... we gotta grieve on our own for a bit, yeah? Find our own way, ya know?" Harry did know, but still didn't have to like it.

Harry Potter was not allowed entrance to The Burrow after the funeral. They said it would be a few weeks, maybe a month, before they could stand to allow the rest of the world to come back in. But, for now, the Weasleys took to their own. And, despite his misgivings, he would be alright with that.

Molly hugged him tightly, and she was oh so _sorry, Harry Dear_, but they all just needed some time to sort their own heads. Bill shook his hand, Arthur hugged him. Percy still couldn't look him in the eye. Ron was busy leading the nigh catatonic George back home. Ginny smiled sadly, and kissed him on the cheek.

It burned, a little bit, but he smiled at her retreating form.

_Loathing_

Harry scowled at himself, and then at the bottle of firewhisky in his hands. He took another swig as the man on the radio asked if it was, indeed, better to burn out than to fade away (my my, hey hey). Well, he would try the first option.

The _Daily Prophet_ was still singing his praises, but he wanted nothing to do with them at all, lousy fair-weather backstabbers. Bugger Magical Britain. He took another swig.

Come to think of it, bugger the muggle one, too.

It had been seven weeks since he had heard from any of the Weasleys, and he didn't particularly blame them. _I did, afterall, get their son killed_.

"Better to burn out, than to fade away," he mumbled. Abruptly, he stood. "I'll go see Luna, then." With a final swig, a look to make sure his clothing was in order, he went out the door.

_Loss_

Luna Lovegood hadn't woken since the last battle.

The Healers didn't know exactly what was wrong here, but, then again, there were a _lot_ of people to attend to afterwords, so Luna sort of fell by the way side these past two months. Upon her unsullied face was a demure smile, a wisp of the former life and vigor that once filled her.

There was a small, yet heated, debate regarding her condition within the medicinal circles. Spell damage, said some. Shell shock, said others. _Maybe she's just crazy_, whispered others. Either way, Luna Selene Lovegood had, for all intents and purposes, ceased to exist in this realm.

Harry Potter slipped into her room quietly, the guard only gazing at his scar before waving him through. He was, afterall, a frequent visitor.

"How's things, Luna?" He paused, as if waiting for an answer. "Ron still hasn't talked to me. I can understand, what with Fred and all, but... He's my best mate, ya know? And Hermione's still in Australia, and Neville's disappeared somewhere, and..."

He paused, and gazed at her serene expression longingly. "I miss you, Luna. You always knew what to say and what to do, and I... I don't," he finished lamely. "Goddamnit, why you? Of all people, why did it have to be you?"

But, of course, he knew the answer to that, or at least expected he did. Luna Lovegood felt too much, felt the pain of everyone, like some cliche messianic figure. It had ruined her.

She had always been a rock, to him; always there, always calm and serene and... well, _Luna_. "I don't know what to do anymore. All my friends are leaving, and... and I can't stop them."

He waited a few moments for an answer that he knew was not forthcoming. "Maybe I should just disappear for a while."

Luna slept.

_Rage_

He stared at the small garden snake. _"Hello,"_ he tried to say to it. _"My name is Harry Potter."_

The snake slithered a little, caring little for the giant beside him.

_"Hello_," he said again, _"I am Harry Potter and I am a parseltongue." _Nothing. In slight desperation, he grabbed the snake in his left hand, causing it to hiss. "_Speak to me, serpent, that I may command you!"_ It bit his hand in response.

"Fucking snake!" In anger, he threw the small creature at the low stone wall surrounding the garden. It twitched slightly, and his eyes widened in shock. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I'm so sorry, I'm so fucking sorry," he said to the reptile as he fell to his knees, hands going out to bring it to his chest.

He was crying, and he didn't know why- goddamnit, he didn't cry at Freds funeral, but he crys over a stupid fucking _garden snake_? Either way. he fumbles for his wand, reaching deep into his pocket for it.

The spell is on his lips when he realizes that the snake is dead, and was dead when it had hit the ground.

_Reeling_

He was drinking, and had been drinking for quite some time now. Sometimes, fame had its virtues, as he and his companion had yet to pay for anything. He cheered, laughing heartily at some half heard joke, using it as an excuse to drink more whiskey.

He couldn't make out any of the faces around him, but he was mostly sure that they couldn't, either. He realized, belatedly, that someone was kissing him rather forcefully, and a quick check to their chest confirmed them a woman. He oblidged, stopping only to drink more whiskey.

He was, quite abruptly, struck with the thought that he missed Hedwig dearly.

No one noticed that he had stopped laughing and started sobbing. Furthermore, no one noticed as he finished his whiskey in one long, sinful gulp, and stalked angrily out the door.

_Message_

_ "Hermione? Hermione, it's me, it's Harry, I... Help me, Hermione, please! There's... there's something wrong with me, I can't... I can't figure it out, everything's wrong, and Luna... everything's so wrong with me, with the world, please, Hermione, please... I'm begging you, you gotta help me, just this once and I'll never ask anything of you ever again, please, Hermione, please! I'm so lost, I can't... I-I...I God, this is so hard..."_ He started sobbing, and then the message ended with a beep.

_Answer_

A letter came on a speckled brown owl, dropping off the letter before flapping away in a huff. It read;

_Go see a doctor, Harry._

_ H.G._

_Medicate_

He went to St. Mungo's that very same day, quietly sitting in the waiting room.

"The doctor will see you now," said the attendent. He said a quiet word of thanks, and made his way into the small office.

After a minute, the doctor, a tall black man of middling age, came in. "Hello, Mr. Potter. What seems to be the problem?"

"Everything. I-I can't eat right, my sleeping is fucked up, I... I don't know what's happening anymore. Everything's wrong."

The doctor regarded him for a moment, and ran the usual battery of tests.

"Well, Mr. Potter, I can find nothing physically wrong with you. I recommend a vacation, and, if these feelings persist, a psychologist. Go and get away from it all for a while."

"But that's just it, I-I-I want to get back _in_ to it all, yeah?"

"Trust me, Mr. Potter."

_Wrong_

He traveled to Japan, taking in the sights. He hopped across the sea to Hong Kong, and then Taiwan. He wandered the steppes of Mongolia, then made his way up to the Ukraine. Poland offered many sights, and Berlin even more.

He sent three owls to Ron, asking about the happenings at the Burrow. One to Hermione, to thank her, two to George, one to Ginny, two to the Weasleys at large, and a dozen others to whoever he felt like talking at that day.

He got exactly zero answers.

_Perfect_

"The more I talk to you, Luna, the more I realize that you're my only friend. Everyone else has gone, but you... you're still here, Luna. You'll always be here, Luna. Hermione left for Australia, and Ron hasn't answered me, and Neville's a shut-in already, but you know how to _listen_, Luna. You're the perfect friend. If I couldn't talk to you, I think I'd go crazy.

_Worries_

_ "I'm worried about you, Harry," _she says into the reciever. _"You're not answering the phone or letters or Floo, and me and Ron have talked it all out, and please, please, Harry, come back to us. We love you, Harry. You're our family. We want you to come home."_

The message remains unheard.

_Fade_

There's a whispering in the wind, and Echo crys into the cold night.

"Harry, Harry!" Her voice echoes deep into the house, but je doesn't answer. "Where are you?" The last is said more to herself, but it still echoes mockingly at her. "Harry! Harry Potter! Come on out, it's Hermione! Come on, Harry!" She turns around, _I guess he isn't home._

A small radio is playing off in the corner, and she turns it off as she goes towards the exit. The last lyrics before it died were, _"it's better to burn out then to fade away... my my, hey hey..."_

Ron was waiting outside, breath fogging in the cold. "C'mon, 'Mione, he's not here, obviously. He'll come out of the woodwork, eventually. We're his family. He'll come to us, one way or t'other, yeah?"

Hermione closed the door, walking out into the cold December air.

She never did find Harry Potter, or, at least, she thought she hadn't.

Hours later, the radio clicked on again. No one was in the house.


End file.
